Someday Paris
by The Egg and I
Summary: SiriusxRemus. An unsent letter from Sirius to Remus written while he was in Askaban--recounts their youthful love and lust filled relationship.


You were beautiful; there was never any question about that. You were so beautiful and so frightened that first dawn in the snow. It was sunrise after the full moon. You crouched, naked and shivering in the snow, tiny map-like lacerations in your pale flesh. I wrapped you inside of my robes. I tried to arch my torso so you wouldn't feel my shameful arousal, but you flattened against me. That moment, without lips, without words, tongue or teeth bonded us indefinitely.

We all envied James. Everything any of us had James had in spades. I will never tell you I didn't love James, because I did. My passion, my obsession with James

Was that of a child. I never loved James, or anyone for that matter as I love you. I know how you loved him, but more importantly I know how you cared for his prized Lilly. What a gentle soul. Maybe I knew then.

Maybe it was understood. That night—the sharp cold just outside the bed curtains on your four-poster; mouths crushing, our tongues boring into one another. Trapped, flailing in a net of bedclothes and pajamas. We had long passed casual flirtation, but at the same time infatuation and childish lust.

I searched endlessly for a way to communicate my desires to you. I tried painting, dong, poetry, letters—At my lowest point: the pinnacle of my madness for you; I placed the parchment in my lap, closed my eyes and thought of you in the way I knew I shouldn't. I touched myself as the tears burned trails down my face—until I had made my mark on the parchment. All of my shame, pleasure, and pain condensed into a few drops on a page. How could I possibly tell you everything? I felt filthy. I felt guilty as hell. But I kept wanting you all the same.

Then it happened. It was an accident, though no one, not even you may believe me. I t was after a game, I thought you'd be studying with Lilly in the common room. But you weren't. I walked into the room. You were on your knees at the foot of the bed, your hand in a tight fist around yourself. I tried to leave, but I tripped backward through the doorframe and startled you. You dropped the object in your other hand—it made a shattering noise as it hit the floor. Mortified, I started picking up pieces of glass. You begged me to leave it be, but it was too late. I saw the broken picture frame just next to the bed. Within its confines: a picture of you and I at the lake house over the summer. I ran from the room, and waited outside the door. I could hear the crunch of broken glass and the faint whimper of your sobs. Still, I did nothing.

Once I knew, I wasn't sure how to approach this delicate position. You had worked so hard, you had come so far—and now if I had you, if we were together; you would be destroyed. "Ickle Remus the git" the "bloody woofter" the "pouf". If we did love, it would have to be in secret.

So it went. You slipped me love letters in divination; I made you aphrodisiac teas and balms in herbology. By day we kept each other at arms distance. At night, only our clothes kept us apart. Of course, all good things come to an end. Or at least all good things must overcome a bump. Otherwise it probably wasn't that good to begin with. Our bump came the summer before seventh year at James' lake house. We were enjoying ourselves as much as we could. Peter couldn't make it so Lilly came in his stead. She and James would swim out to the dock after we ate breakfast and sunbathe and swim until lunch. We'd lie in bed and wait until we heard them leave then you'd slither into bed next to me, into our skin. With Lilly and James out on the dock for three hours we felt safe and isolated.

Those first few days were filled with cautious, thrilling exploration. Culminating in Wednesday morning's sin. It was so much like that day in the snow. You crouched, quivering beneath me—your pale scarred back arched like the moon. Your breaths were shallow and deprived. I asked you if you were alright. I asked you if you wanted to stop. You didn't answer me with your words; just dropped your head down, dinking behind your shoulder blades and lurched forward, then fell back with a deflating moan. Spiraling toward oblivion, I careened forward, my forehead on the nape of your neck, hands gripping your alabaster hips as my lungs reached out for breath, you rocking like the ebbing tide beneath me.

It would be Lilly who would find us, together on a Friday morning, panting and pushing against one another; your flaxen locks in one of my hands and an oak bedpost in the other—your knuckles as white as the bed linens they were fisted in. The soda bottles shattered on the floor, splintering the echo of her scream of shock.

I miss the sunlight. Actually that's a lie, because I've forgotten what the sun looks like, what it feels like, smells like, tastes like. I imagine you've become my Sun. I know every inch of your fair fragile frame; your smell like cedar sugar tangerine: your lips with the slightest hint of chocolate lingering.

It's impossible to explain what it's like here. It's cold, dark, damp, and it reeks of death and heartache. At night there are no stars. Some times I wish I had not decided on the dog, but rather a black bird so I could fly out through the bars, past the guardians of death and home to you. It would be so easy to hide. You could put a bird house and a bird bath out back, and at night I could fly in through the bedroom window and lie beside you. No one would ever find me. After a few years of safety period we could run away to somewhere where we could be safe. Run off and pretend to be muggles. Take Harry out of Hogwarts and have a real family.

I think about them a lot. James, Lilly and Harry. I remember the first time I ever saw him; That warm humming blue blanket bundle that smelled of talc and lavender. I remember the feeling of love like waves of bathwater ebbing in my heart. He was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

Why them? Why did they die? I have nightmares, horrible obscene nightmares. The dark lord drinking James' blood like wine; hunched like some primal beast over his exquisite corpse—feasting on James' insides—spitting out his noble heart on the kitchen floor as if it might poison him. I always try to wake myself, but it never works. The vision of Lilly, her infant prince in her lifeless arms—listening in vain for a heartbeat within her silent breast.

How old must he be now—fourteen? I imagine he looks just like James.

It's so strange, the whole time I've been so presumptuous; assuming that things are still the way they were. That you still love me like you used to. We used to be inseparable you and I. You used to kiss me with such urgency : your thin fingers tearing through my dark mane, teeth savagely ripping at my lips, your tongue battling for strength and superiority. But you were innocent too: wounded and whimpering in your bandages , cradled in my arms. I'm not sure which way I liked you better.

You must feel so terrible for feeling so jealous of them. And by them I mean James and Lilly, and by you must feel so guilty I mean I feel horrible so I know it must be worse for you because your emotions, your pain is so pure and sincere. I remember when James told us they were engaged. No one was surprised. Hogwarts' golden couple practically left commencement and went straight to the chapel. I wish I could have given you that.

It was one of the best nights of all of our lives. Lilly looked like a dream, the champagne flowed from a fountain like golden nectar from the gods. The music was beautiful and we all danced until the sun began to rise again.

If I could have I would have given you everything James gave Lilly and more.

Including a son.

I'll never forget the night when I made the merlot stain on the white carpet in front of the fireplace. It was a week away from Halloween. It was cool, crisp and clear. We sat by the fire as you drank your wine and read me poetry. I noticed the book was fairly old, so I asked where you had gotten it. You told me it was your father's and your grandfather's before him and his father's and so forth and so on. Then you got quiet and said that you guessed you'd have no son to pass it down to. I asked you what you meant. You took a half unwrapped chocolate bar from your pocket and broke off a few sections before asking me to think about it.

"Two men raising a child? One a werewolf , both wizards? That doesn't make us the greatest candidates." You grumbled before mildly nipping at your chocolate.

"What does it matter?" I growled, growing angry.

"Plus," you continued on your previous thought, eyes locked on the candy. "What would my father say if he found out? Or Dumbledore, or the rest of the order?"

"Who sodding cares about the rest of the order, or anyone else for that matter!?" I barked. "Are you going to live your whole life doing as you've been instructed Remus?"

Then you looked at me and you were different. Your eyes were gleaming, brimming with tears but you managed to keep the tears out of your voice. "I'm not like you Sirius, I can't just forsake what family I have and do as I please!" you shouted, your half full wine glass toppled over, crimson liquid seeping into the carpet.

Then I cried. Like a child, I sat there and cried.

"_Every moment is two moments." _You had said to me just before I left that winter. We were lying on the couch, its brown velour upholstery frayed and ripped in parts—the springs jutting out on the corners of some of the cushions, burned patches and ash on the arms at either end from your cigarettes. At first I wasn't sure what you meant. I just looked out the window at the snow drifting to the ground without so much as a sigh.

You put your head under my chin, your fair hair smelled like cigarettes and expensive shampoo. Your skin burned, burned me with the knowledge that within the week, I'd have to leave. I couldn't tell you, which means I couldn't tell anybody. But I had to leave, and no matter how much I loved you, no matter how you felt in my arms, come Christmas Eve, I'd be on a train out of the Burrough.

It seemed like forever that we sat there in silence. Maybe you knew. No, you didn't, and you wouldn't. But I hoped, I convinced myself that some how you knew, and that this was enough. How long did we sit there? Three inches of snow fell, you warmed both my hands, I made myself a cup of tea, and fixed the fire before either one of us spoke.

"Do you remember?" you asked me as we lay there on the couch under that old crocheted blanket your mother had made.

"Do I remember what?"

"The first time we ever slept together?"

I hoped you knew, I hoped you were doing this on purpose, that you were trying to wound me.

"What?" I chuckled.

Because I deserved every bit of it.

"You know, just spent the night sleeping in the same bed?"

"Yeah…"

"We were lying just like this, under this exact blanket."

"I guess we were."

"More importantly," you said with that funny hint of duty in your voice, like black coffee or turpentine; "it felt just like this."

"Felt just like what?"

"Home."

I'll never forget leaving that winter. I hid the suitcases in the shed out back. I slid out of bed, your body still curved around my phantom in the blankets. I made coffee, and drank it black like you did. Then I put all my pocket money in the jar by the door and lit one of your cigarettes, even though I never smoke. Maybe I thought, if I could just be like you it wasn't real that I was going to hurt you like I did. I turned the knob all the way around before you called from the bedroom to ask where I was going. I told you I was going out, I promised I'd come back. Then I put the folded yellow paper on the kitchen table and walked out the door.

Merry Christmas

This morning I woke up, the radio wishing me good will towards men and peace on earth; the picture of you and me smiling still burning inside my eyelids. Then, it was almost as if I could feel the bed lift, hear the sputter of the coffee maker in the kitchen, hear the whir-click of the spark wheel—smell the gas of the lighter. Then it was gone. I thought of your gold hair, your grey eyes, and the burgundy and gold blanket. I cried. Maybe for you every moment is two moments, but for me, that moment is every moment, and I'll be living it for the rest of my life.

Let's go away. Paris--you always wanted to go to Paris. I always laughed at you and called you a hopeless romantic, but now I want to take you to Paris. We would go to the Louvre, le Centre Pompidou, and you would talk about art and life and beauty

But mostly about beauty.

I would even climb every last step of the Eifel tower just to see your eyes as you looked down at the city rushing beneath you from on high.

To see your golden tresses shimmering like champagne on the pillowcase

in the half light of flame, our limbs heavy with French wine and exhaustion. Your white dinner jacket, cast without care on the floor: discarded and forgotten as the ashed cigarettes, cold and spent in the ashtray on the nightstand. I'd hold you against me, in a huddled whisper—safe within the confines of our white linen cocoon.

But perhaps, we're not cut out for Paris anymore. We could run to the woods to hide beneath her leafy canopy to live the simple life we never lived "one day deliberately as nature" Pick up some good habits like eating right, getting enough sleep, carrying our joy on the left and carrying our pain on the right. We could stop trying to be heroes, stop trying to save the world, to make a difference, to "fight the good fight". But we never could pretend. So I suppose we never will go to Paris, or run away to the sacred wood to forget or to be forgotten. Still, I wish I could have had you like I wanted.

Just once.


End file.
